


Nerves

by hekxate



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-17 20:12:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14196840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hekxate/pseuds/hekxate
Summary: A teenage T'Challa frets about a visitor coming to the palace.Basically young T'Challa mooning over Nakia and T'Chaka teasing him for it. Set before T'Challa takes on the mantle of Black Panther, when he is about 17 or 18.





	Nerves

The heat of a Wakandan summer is oppressive and somewhat sticky, hanging in the air in a way that seems inescapable. Although T’Challa is used to it­— he has grown up here, he lives here, he thrives in the heat— he still curses it when he rubs his palms together in anticipation, finding them slick with sweat.

Truthfully, the heat is more than manageable. Regardless of his heritage, Wakandan technology is so far advanced in terms of cooling systems, air regulation, and even fabric production that the inconvenience of something such as heat could be considered laughably small. T’Challa’s palms are sweaty and his face is flushed, and though he would blame it on the heat, if asked, the truth is that he is _anxious_.

The crown prince of Wakanda, heir to the throne, prospect for the title of Black Panther, is _anxious_.

About a _girl_.

T’Challa paces restlessly around the common chambers of the palace. He worries his hands in front of him, picking at them, before swinging them to fold behind his back. Then, up to his face, to pick at something, then to the cuff of his sleeve, then to his pockets­— he is fidgeting. His face, usually calm and collected, has the slightest of frowns etched into his brow.

 _A girl_ , he thinks. No, that is unfair. _A woman._ A graceful, dangerous, intelligent, highly-skilled, wonderfully witty young _woman_ — she would be the death of him. So skilled at everything she did, so precise in both conversation in combat. Her form always left him in awe; whether she was striking down opponents or charming her way through nobility, she held a composure far more eloquent and seemingly far more effortless than he could ever hope for.

 _Nakia_.

Sometimes, he hears his elders call her _reckless_. Openly critical of Wakanda’s international policies, judgemental of the inner workings of their nation. Reckless is not the right word, to T’Challa. That would imply some level of irrationality, a lack of concern for the safety of others, or herself. Nakia has none of those things. Nakia is smart— calculating, even. Though even T’Challa may find some of her ideas… radical, he can not deny that her heart and her passion are set in the right place. As much as he wishes to listen to what she says, he must to follow tradition— though he is not yet King, and hopefully not for many years to come— he has shadowed his father in Wakandan politics long enough to realize the importance of tradition in the machinations of Wakanda, and the potential chaos uprooting that tradition would cause.

He often dreams of having intellectual conversations about this with Nakia. Debates lasting hours, listening to her reasonings, providing his own— a sort of intellectual stimulation even his lessons often fail to give him. He only dreams most of these conversations, however, as he is often so stunned by her wit and charm that he can barely get out any words at all.

Wit, and charm, and… other things.

He is a young man, after all.

It is his father’s booming voice that finally breaks T’Challa from his anxious thoughts.

“My son,” he calls. “Stop pacing, or you may well trace a path into the tiles.” T’Challa nods, coming to a halt in front of his father.

“My apologies, father.”

T’Chaka’s eyes are warm, and he claps his hand onto T’Challa’s shoulder. He turns him gently, guiding him to walk side by side into the corridors.

“There is no need for apology, T’Challa,” he chuckles. “Clearly, you are anxious. What is the matter?”

T’Challa squirms a little, avoiding his eyes. “Nothing is the matter, father.” T’Chaka says nothing, but T’Challa can feel the doubtful raise of his father’s brow.

“Nothing is the matter, Father,” the King repeats slowly. “I was just pacing the common room, fidgeting restlessly, all dressed up in my pants that I believe make my behind look good—” T’Challa squawks in indignation, but does not interrupt his father when he pauses to level him with an appraising look, “­—for no reason.” Their gaze holds for a moment, T’Chaka silently challenging T’Challa to deny the truth, before they both turn to face forward again. After a few seconds of silence, T’Challa sighs.

“It is Nakia.”

“Ahhh,” T’Chaka hums. T’Challa can hear the grin on his face, half prideful, half teasing. “Nakia, Nakia, Nakia. What about our promising young warrior troubles you so, son?”

T’Challa tenses slightly and fidgets with his hands that are clasped behind his back. Admitting this to himself had been stressful enough, but openly admitting his affections for Nakia to his father… While there is little doubt in T’Challa’s mind that T’Chaka already knows exactly what is going on, voicing his feelings is still somehow terrifying. As if saying it out loud solidified it, made it real.

“She is… coming over, this afternoon,” He stalls. “That is all.” T’Chaka barks out a laugh, clapping his son on the back as they pass through a grand set of doors and onto a balcony overlooking his mother’s beautiful garden.

“She is coming over!” He cries. “With what, T’Challa, an army to overthrow the throne? Is that why you fidget with your cuffs so?”

T’Challa snaps his hands forwards to rest on the railing of the balcony.

“No,” he states firmly.

They are silent for a few moments, and T’Challa gets the feeling that his father is waiting for him to continue. T’Chaka won’t pressure him, won’t push for an answer, but T’Challa knows his father well enough by now to know he is simply waiting for him to tell the truth. Finally, he gives in.

“You want me to say it.”

“I do.”

T’Challa leans forward on his arms, hanging his head down, suddenly feeling like groaning and being the petulant teenager he sometimes wishes he was allowed to be. After a moment, he inhales sharply, raising his gaze to look out upon the grounds, and then over to his father.

“I have… feelings, for her.”

“You do?” T’Chaka asks. “I had no way of knowing, not a clue.” His grin is stretched from ear to ear. T’Challa can’t resist his own smile, now, glancing down to his sandaled feet somewhat bashfully.

“Yes.” His tongue darts out between his lips, wetting them, and he sighs slightly. “She is wonderful.”

 “And is… This—” T’Chaka gestures to his son’s (admittedly carefully selected) outfit— “for her?”

T’Challa nods slightly. “It is.”

“Then you plan on doing something about it?”

T’Challa’s head snaps up to look at his father, somewhat alarmed. _Do something_ about it? Wearing clothes he felt best flattered his physique to impress Nakia was one thing, certainly. Of course he wanted to look good for her. She was a pretty young woman, the object of his affections. _Of course_ he would dress in a way he thought may impress her. But to… do something?

“Like what, father?” He demands, suddenly defensive. “Get down on one knee and ask her to be my Queen?” T’Challa shakes his head furiously. “I think not. That is ridiculous.”

T’Chaka gazes at him, unimpressed.

“Surely there is space between _just friends_ and _marriage_ , don’t you think, son?” He says. T’Challa fusses under his gaze, biting his lip before responding.

“Wouldn’t you consider that… to be a lot of pressure?” He asks. “Dating a prince. The crown prince, in fact.” He sighs again, defeated this time. “You know how strong-willed Nakia is. She is in training to become a war dog. You think I could pull her away from that?”

“Firstly,” the King says, “She is already involved with you, and any amount of pressure caused by dating you would hardly be different from the pressure of public speculation that occurs now, anyways.” He smiles fondly at his son. “Secondly, would your affections truly pull her away from her work? Are your desires so selfish?”

The silence between them is a little heavier, now.

“No, Father.”

“Of course not,” T’Chaka nods. “She can be both a warrior and a woman, T’Challa. Her work would have no bearings on her feelings for you.”

“You’re assuming she returns my affections,” T’Challa grumbles. T’Chaka raises his brows once again.

“You think she doesn’t?”

T’Challa fumbles for an answer. He’d like to _think_ she does— his misguided attempts at flirting are not met with disgust, or rejection, and sometimes her words to him are equally as warm— but to believe it to be a solid fact seemed arrogant at best and deluded at worst. Rather than answer, he steers the conversation away.

“Being a war dog, she would be away from Wakanda, often.”

T’Chaka nods. “Such is life,” he states. “Should she one day be your Queen, T’Challa, she would eventually retire to stay here and rule by your side. However…” He pauses. “That would not be an immediate situation. She has many years between now and that potential future to serve Wakanda. Never mind the fact that you couldn’t keep that girl tied to the throne, anyways.”

T’Challa smiles at that. Nakia’s strong will and devotion to Wakanda were two of her most admirable traits. Of course, even as his Queen, she would occasionally take off to accomplish her goals— he wouldn’t stop her, even if he thought he could.

“I would still wish her to remain by my side more often than not,” He admits.

“That is fair,” T’Chaka gazes into his son’s eyes again. “This is all just a potential future, my son. We will see what will come, in time.” T’Challa nods, and as his father steps away to take his leave, he bows.

“Thank you, Father.”

T’Chaka smiles at him again.

“It is no problem, my son. And if things do not work out in the long run, do not worry. No one can fault a prince such as yourself for wanting to kiss a pretty girl.” T’Challa shakes his head.

“And mother wonders where Shuri gets it from.” He says, a bemused smile creeping on to his face. _Wanting to kiss a pretty girl…_ That was one way to lighten the situation.

King T’Chaka says nothing in response, but winks at him slyly before returning indoors. T’Challa turns back out to face the gardens, sighing slightly. He felt better, now. Certainly, if he focused on the curve of Nakia’s soft cheek, or her bright smile, he could get himself worked up again, but he knew better. She would be over later, and they would talk. Maybe he’d even make her laugh.

T’Challa can’t help the grin that spreads across his face as he decides that maybe he will do something about it, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I like to imagine that T'Chaka enjoys teasing his children, and that Shuri got her sense of humour from him. He's wise, and distills knowledge and all that, but lightens the mood somehow. 
> 
> The second chapter will be when Nakia actually arrives and T'Challa dealing with that pot of nerves. Poor young man. Thanks for reading!! :')


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